Page 100 of Reasons We Break

She spins every possible lie, every explanation she can think of for every scenario, poking holes into each one as she does, trying to make them bulletproof.

But, her mother doesn’t return all night.

WHEN SIMRAN WAKESthe next day, her first thought is surprise that she fell asleep. Her phone tells her it’s noon. Practically early. And—she squints at her screen—she’s got several missed calls from a private number. Nick.

Well, the Lions will have to wait. She rolls onto her back again and stares at the ceiling. Spreads her arms out on her bed, which feels strangely empty without...him.

Memories of last night flood back. Her. Rajan. Kissing. No—more than that. The things she asked him to do...in the daylight, her cheeks burn. She tugs her pillow over her face. How can she ever look him in the eye again?

The pillow makes her bruised cheek smart, and she tosses it away. Right. So much more thanthathappened yesterday. She glances at her purse on the floor. She doesn’t know what possessed her to shove the last Ace ledger in her bag. Well, actually, she does. She wanted to finish decoding it. But having it in her room feels somewhat like having a grenade.

Her mom calls her name from downstairs.

“You’re going to be late!”

Late? For what? Simran changes quickly, braids her hair, and puts on her old glasses. They make her look fourteen and awkward. Oh well. She grabs her purse—she’s not letting that ledger leave her sight—and heads downstairs.

The smell ofcookingwafts over, halting her on the last step. From here, she can see into the kitchen. Her mother’s back is turned, and she’s humming along to kirtan as she flips something on the stove. Paranthé, if the aroma is any indication. But...her mom hasn’t cooked in months.

And Simran had thought she’d never see it again. She draws closer, drinking in the sight.

Her mother turns. “There you are.”

She sounds chipper. Simran eyes her warily.

“For you.” She brandishes a plate piled with paranthé. “Eggs, too. Good for your brain.”

It’s like the interrogation yesterday never happened. Simran sinks into a chair. The parantha is delicious: warm, crisp, filled with layers of flavour. Hadn’t her mom once said she put blended daal in the dough? Simran doesn’t recall exactly.

She pauses mid-chew, the enjoyment flooding away, replaced with panic. What if she never learns? What if she loses this part of her mother? “Can you show me how to make these?”

“Really?” Her mom smiles, pleased. “You’ve never shown interest before.”

“Can you show me rightnow?”

She can’t stop the desperate edge entering her voice. Her mother raises a brow. “Aren’t you going to be late for Neetu?”

Neetu? Simran glances at the whiteboard. Under today’s date, she’d scribbled in kirtan practice with Neetu, a re-re-rebooking. “Right.” Her mom is once again paying attention to Simran’s schedule—more than Simran is. “Tomorrow, then. I have to learn.”

Her mother, oblivious to her inner turmoil, turns up the TV and tuts. “Look. Gangs are tearing up this city. This is the second time in two months. Almost as bad as Surrey.”

Simran pauses, her spoonful of dahi halfway to her mouth. On-screen is the Lion’s café. The next shot is the parking lot, surrounded by police cruisers and tape. The newscaster discusses a drug seizure. Illegal funds. Property damaged and people killed.

Simrancould’ve been one of those people. If it wasn’t for Rajan, she would’ve been.

The parantha turns to chalk in her mouth. She has to talk to Nick. Now.

As she’s setting her spoon down, her father comes in and frowns. “Look at that bruise. You need to eat,” he says, as if that’s going to spontaneously clear the injury.

Her mom sniffs. “She’s sitting here chewing her lip instead of her food. Even though her practice is infifteen minutes.” She whisks Simran’s plate away. “I’ll pack it.”

“I don’t need—”

“You’ll get hungry. You’ll see.” She loads it with chutney and wraps it neatly. Simran accepts the package and is turning for the door when her mother speaks again.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Her words hang in the air. Simran pivots slowly, to find her holding out Rajan’s hoodie. Newly washed and folded.